


Questionable Breakfast

by Gilded_Pleasure



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Adoption, Domestic Fluff, Family, Fluff, Joan Watson is 49 and you can't change my mind, Sherlock Being Sherlock, breakfast at the brownstone takes all forms, why have depth when you can have fart jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-07-04 15:11:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15843861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gilded_Pleasure/pseuds/Gilded_Pleasure
Summary: Some silly, short fluff. Joan & Sherlock discuss telling her mother about her upcoming adoption.





	Questionable Breakfast

“She asked me why I’m not having a baby the old fashioned way.” Watson rolled her eyes, leaned against the wall and gazed out their kitchen window. Her mug of tea steamed, and she sipped at it angrily.  
Sherlock gazed into his bowl of pickled radish and tried to think of a tactful response to that, pushing the diced bits around with the tips of his chopsticks.  
“It’s possible your mother has neglected to account for...” he considered a moment, turned it into a question. “...the passage of time?”  
He switched to the bowl of raw ginger slices and popped one into his mouth, chewing slowly and carefully.  
Watson shrugged absently. “I guess it’s hard to know whether or not it’s her forgetting what year it is, or how old I am. Maybe she’s just being weird about the idea of me adopting a baby instead of...I don’t know, fertility treatments, IFV and all that? Not sure how that would count as old-fashioned, but...”She looked over at him. “You know how she is.”  
“A woman of many mysteries,” he agreed.  
Watson brought her tea over to the table, pulled out and chair and then stopped, suddenly frowning down at his bowls.  
“Are you doing what I think you might be doing?”  
Sherlock tapped the first bowl with his chopsticks. “Flatulence generator.” He tapped the other. “Possible flatulence reducer number four.”  
Joan pushed the chair back in, and picked up her tea.  
“I’ll be in my room for the next twelve hours if you need me,” she huffed, picking her mug back up again and turning to leave.  
“Four of seven,” he elaborated. “I’d hate to keep you prisoner in your room without notice. Perhaps other lodgings for a day or three might be in order?”  
She groaned as she turned the corner to head up the stairs.  
“You could consider giving Detective Grimes a call,” he shouted after her rapidly retreating footsteps.


End file.
